


Delightful

by FinelyDressedSpacemen



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, First Kiss, Framing Device, M/M, Objectification
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:27:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29549295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinelyDressedSpacemen/pseuds/FinelyDressedSpacemen
Summary: "You only have ten toppings to choose from, and none of them is red onion ('red onion has no place on a pizza, darling,' the owner told me— 'it overpowers the body of the sauce profile').““That’s Culinary School 101,” Eames interrupts, quietly."Do you want me to read this or not?”
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 48





	Delightful

**Author's Note:**

> This thing wrote itself in like, 48 hours. My other WIPs are excessively jealous. Soundtrack highly encouraged. This is my first AU so please bear with me, and I apologize if this has been done too many times before. 
> 
> Soundtrack:
> 
> Them There Eyes/Honeysuckle Rose— Louis Prima  
> Volare- Dean Martin  
> Pizza Guy- Touch Sensitive

“‘Delightful.’ What kind of headline is that?” Eames asks, brow knit in an uncharacteristic show of anxiety.

“A positive one,” Ariadne replies, wryly. “Go on. Read it.”

Eames slides his phone across the counter and drops his head to the cool Formica. “I can’t,” he moans. “You do it.” Ariadne takes the phone, clearing her throat. 

“‘For the casual pizza fan, the new pizza joint on 37th and Main leaves a lot to be desired,’” she begins.

“Oh God,” Eames groans into the countertop. 

“‘They don’t deliver. This is the only pizza place in the city without a gluten free option, and they have only one sauce recipe. You only have ten toppings to choose from, and none of them is red onion (“red onion has no place on a pizza, darling,” the owner told me— “it overpowers the body of the sauce profile”).’“

“That’s Culinary School 101,” Eames interrupts, quietly. 

“Do you want me to read this or not?” Ariadne barks.

^~*~^

“A pizza place.” Arthur stares blankly at his boss, the sounds of the bullpen blurring around him.

“I know it is not your usual fare,” Saito frowns. “But we write a paper for a wider audience, Mr. Aaronson. I need a break from publishing another story about another steakhouse.”

“We did a crab shack last week,” Arthur reminds him. 

“I need something for the family,” Saito explains. “Something that appeals to the masses.”

“Like pizza,” Arthur says, flatly. 

“Like pizza,” Saito confirms, apparently happy that they’ve reached an understanding. 

Arthur is aware he’s got a snooty palate. He knows he likes a steak that costs forty dollars more than one that costs twenty. He actually likes bone marrow, and he can tell the difference between a cheap red and a pricey one. He knows that’s not normal. More than that, he knows it’s not normal that—

“I don’t eat pizza,” Arthur sighs, dropping into an office chair. 

“You eat everything,” Saito intones. “You’re a food critic.” Behind him, his blinds sway gently in the over enthusiastic office AC. Arthur doesn’t say anything. “Take Cobb with you,” Saito offers. 

“Take Cobb where?” Cobb asks from the doorway, as if summoned. 

“You’re going to get pizza with Mr. Aaronson,” Saito replies. Arthur leans his chair back and sighs. 

“Wonderful,” Cobb says with a grin. “I’ll bring the kids.”

^~*~^

_No, The Pizza Forge, despite its limited offerings, was built for the adventurous palate. For the serious pizza lover, it is an intercontinental Mecca, offering a traditional Chicago deep dish experience, alongside authentic Detroit Muenster and the kind of immensely foldable pie you can usually only find in the west end of the Bronx._

^~*~^

The red vinyl booth squeaks obnoxiously as Arthur slides across it. He scoots a little to the left, and back. “Hmm,” he hums. Left, then back again. The squeak is consistent.

Cobb and the smaller Cobbs seem wholly unperturbed. “Man, I love good pizza,” Cobb says. “I haven’t taken the kids out for pizza since,” he falters. “Well.”

Arthur frowns. Cobb’s wife died under mysterious circumstances the year before. Saito knows what happened. He never let the story run, and forbade talk of it in the office. For that reason, there is a somewhat persistent rumor around the bullpen that Cobb murdered his wife. Arthur, having spent more than five seconds with Cobb, never bought it. Cobb is a piece of work, but Arthur genuinely likes the guy. 

“Welcome to The Pizza Forge,” a voice purrs from Arthur’s left. Arthur glances up to meet the gaze of what might be the most beautiful man he’s ever encountered. If he hadn’t known he was gay before, he would know it now. 

(Eames, for his part, is remarkably close to a panic attack. He had rushed out to the table after Ariadne insisted the city’s preeminent food critic was waiting with his family, and growing increasingly impatient. That the man with the power to launch or destroy Eames entire dream is a sloe-eyed Adonis is not helping. He does his best to remain impassively calm.) 

“What can I get started for your lovely family?” Eames asks. 

“His family. Not mine. Just a coworker,” Arthur mutters, and he immediately regrets it. “I’m not a pizza person,” he adds. He regrets that too. 

“Why are you reviewing a pizza place if you don’t like pizza?” Eames asks, dropping all pretense that he doesn’t know who Arthur is. He is baffled, and a little bit angry. Gorgeous (and single) or no, Eames is horrified at the thought of Arthur ruining his business over a personal preference. Really, Eames thinks, he should have known something was off when Arthur came in to a pizza shop wearing a suit. 

“I have no idea,” Arthur replies, sincerely. “That’s why they’re with me.” Eames glances over at the smiling Cobbs, the youngest of which is sucking on the edge of the table, uncaring. Arthur, however, is staring at the lamp above the booth. “Is that meant to be ironic?” Arthur asks. Eames glances between Arthur and the lamp.

“Obviously,” he says. 

“Hmm,” Arthur says. 

“Tell you what: I’ll send out some of everything. Then, let me show you the rest of it,” Eames suggests. “Come back tomorrow. We’ll do the whole Guy Fieri bit.” He can tell from the look on Arthur’s face the comparison was unwelcome. 

“Hmm,” Arthur says.

^~*~^

_That one sauce recipe, by the way, is pure ambrosia: at once both simple and complex, a piquant marriage of oregano, roasted tomatoes, and an extremely specific amount of real sugar that lends a sweetness that somehow transcends both style and tradition— a sweetness that manages to work with forkfuls of Italian sausage and buttery deep dish crust, or nestled against lacy, caramelized Harvati, or spread thin beneath a bed of perfectly crisp cups of pepperoni._

^~*~^

“ _Arthur, get the sauce recipe,_ ” Cobb texts, as Arthur is walking back into The Pizza Forge. He pockets his phone.

“Arthur,” Eames purrs. “I’m glad you came.” 

“My friend has asked me to smuggle out your sauce recipe,” Arthur says, the ghost of a grin playing around his mouth. 

“You can help me make it then,” Eames says, tying an apron around his waist. 

It goes surprisingly well, with Arthur stirring as Eames carefully measures ingredients. “In private, I like to cook with my heart,” he says, grinding oregano in a bowl. “Here, consistency matters. I made the sauce recipe from scratch. Now, it’s rote memory. I want people to know what they’re getting. I want them to be able to order what they like and know it’ll be the same every time.”

“That’s a smart business move,” Arthur says. 

“I would have thought you would be more into creativity,” Eames replies. “Something with a little imagination.”

“I like specificity, Mr. Eames. Also, I don’t eat pizza,” Arthur reminds him. “And when I do. I like it with onion, which you don’t have.” Arthur frowns. “Why is that?”

“Red onion has no place on a pizza, darling,” Eames says, flatly. “It overpowers the body of the sauce profile.”

“Hmm,” Arthur hums, suspiciously. 

“Why did you become a food critic?” Eames asks, abruptly. 

Arthur smiles slowly. “I liked food, and I liked to critique things,” he says, lifting his eyes up from the steaming mess of tomatoes. 

“Little bit condescending there, love,” Eames grumbles. 

“Usually people just say I’m a judgmental prick who has no taste.” Eames can’t imagine any of that is true. “Why did you become a chef?”

“I liked food, and I liked to cook things,” Eames chirps. He’s weighing a pile of white powder on a small scale, removing tiny bits with a razor blade. 

“Is that cocaine?” Arthur asks, bewildered. 

“Might as well be,” Eames sighs. “Pure cane sugar. It needs to be exact.” The crystals disappear into the sauce pot with a swipe of the razor. Arthur continues to stir. “Not quite like that, darling,” Eames says gently, stepping closer behind Arthur. “We want the sugar to incorporate before it sticks.” He moves a hand carefully over Arthur’s and guides his spoon in a zig zag pattern. Arthur does his best not to tense. He fails spectacularly as Eames’ free hand falls to his hip. 

“I don’t stir it like that and it always turns out ok,” Ariadne says from the other side of the kitchen, where she is slicing cremini mushrooms into bite size pieces. Yusuf, working a large dough mixer beside her, merely smirks. 

“Yes, well, you’re going to be the death of this business,” Eames growls. “We’re ready here,” he says, nodding to the pot. He gently nudges Arthur out of the way with his hip and grasps the pot’s handles with a pair of kitchen towels. Arthur tries not to stare at the movement of his tattooed muscles as he hefts the sauce pot. “Get the walk-in door for me, love.”

It’s cold in the refrigerator— bracing, and surprisingly nice after standing over the stove. The shelves are lined with trays of dough balls, and piles of other fresh ingredients. 

There’s absolutely nowhere to put the sauce.

“Shift the prosciutto down a shelf,” Eames directs, hands full. Arthur does. “Let’s scoot the batch from this morning over towards the peppers so this doesn’t raise their temperature too much.” Arthur starts to do that as well, the pan rattling across the wire shelving. Without warning, the pan catches on a bolt. Bright red sauce sloshes onto Arthur’s shirt and hands.

“ _Shit,_ ” Eames hisses, as the sauce drips languidly down Arthur’s front and onto his shoes. He quickly sets his pot down in the corner of the walk-in. Unthinking, he swipes his kitchen towel across Arthur’s abdomen. 

“Stop,” Arthur blurts, eyes closed, hands hovering. “Just stop,” he sighs. His hands move to his tie, pulling it roughly from his collar. He starts unbuttoning his shirt. 

Eames leans out of the walk-in. “Ariadne, bring us one of the tourist shirts, please,” he calls. Arthur drops his sodden dress shirt onto the steel floor. 

“Fuck,” he grumbles. “So much for the undershirt.” Eames’ mouth goes entirely dry as Arthur pulls the undershirt over his head, seemingly oblivious to the show he’s putting on. He runs a hand across his mouth and swallows. 

Ariadne comes in, two brightly colored t-shirts in her hands. “Hey, all I had was pink and—“ she freezes, taking in the sight in front of her. “Yowza.” Eames agrees. Beneath his suit, Arthur looks less like a cube dweller and more like a professional soccer player. 

“The teal will be fine, thank you,” Arthur says, holding a hand out to catch the shirt. Ariadne waves the shirts absently. 

“I can go look around again, if you—“

“Ariadne,” Eames says with a warning growl.

“Bye.” She chucks the shirt in Arthur’s general direction and bolts from the walk-in. 

Eames tries not to let his gaze linger on the lean muscles of Arthur’s torso. Armed with a shirt, Arthur doesn’t seem very intent on using it. He frowns at his own stomach, hands flailing uselessly at his sides. Eames steps forward, and bends to retrieve the soiled shirt and tie from the ground. “You don’t have to do that,” Arthur says. 

“Of course I do, darling,” Eames replies as he stands. He finds himself a little too close to Arthur, the critic’s back against a shelf of cured meat, his naked front scant more than an inch away from Eames. He breathes carefully into the space between them. “Health code, you know.”

“Uh huh,” Arthur swallows. Eames holds stock still, the very picture of restraint. “Can I use your bathroom to clean up?” Arthur asks, quietly.

“Of course.” Eames clears his throat. He steps back, spell broken. He leads Arthur out of the walk-in and points him down the hall.

^~*~^

_It’s the atmosphere I loved the most. It should be a little ridiculous. Here is a man who has never even been to Italy and only recently passed his American citizenship test running a restaurant out of a space that used to be an antique store. He’s painted the walls a gaudy green and red, and hung a bunch of mug shots of mobsters up (not even ones from this city). You can’t escape the Rat Pack lounge music, a mere scintilla ahead of an Olive Garden soundtrack when it comes to cliche. But hidden in the back hallway, Mr. Eames has been slowly painting the entire works of Leonardo da Vinci with exacting precision on the refinished dry wall. It’s a beautiful work of art, full of as much passion as the originals, and maybe even more than the pizza. You can pretend you’re at the Louvre admiring the Mona Lisa, then head back to your red vinyl booth and eat breadsticks beneath a Tiffany Pizza Hut lamp (which is obviously meant to be ironic)._

^~*~^

“Well I wanted to be a painter, originally,” Eames admits, blushing beneath the effusive praise Arthur is lavishing on his mural. He’d gone hunting when Arthur hadn’t returned from the bathroom, a little worried the man had left out the back. Instead, he’d found Arthur gawking at the wall, still shirtless.

Now fully clothed, Arthur sits at the counter, his chin resting on his hand. Eames is on the other side, rolling silverware into napkin burritos. “Why didn’t you do that?” Arthur asks. “You clearly could have made a living at it.”

“It wasn’t meant for me,” Eames shrugs. “In truth, I’m better copying someone else than painting something original. In the kitchen, I can be creative. That wall is just plagiarism.”

“That wall is gorgeous,” Arthur insists, dropping his hand and leaning halfway across the counter. “You’re a true talent, Mr. Eames.”

“What are you doing this Friday?” Eames asks suddenly, wrapping silverware without looking. 

“Nothing,” Arthur replies, warily. 

“Go out with me,” Eames offers softly. “Ariadne and Yusuf can handle things here. Let me buy you a drink.”

Arthur sighs. In truth, there’s nothing he’d like more. He has a feeling he’s going to be craving pizza for weeks after this review. But he’s no stranger to restauranteurs chatting him up in hopes of getting a better rating. Eames doesn’t seem like the type. Arthur wants to believe he isn’t. Still, he’s been stung before, and more than that, he’s a professional. 

“I can’t go out with someone I’m reviewing,” Arthur answers, and it sounds like an apology. 

“I see,” Eames says. “Well, that’s for the best, I suppose. I’m sure people throw themselves at you during these things.”

“At least a few times a year.” Arthur smiles ruefully. “I should be going,” he says, eyeing the fading light through the plate glass window. 

“I look forward to your article,” Eames says, reaching a hand across the counter to shake Arthur’s. Arthur takes it. 

“Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Eames.” The chef’s blue eyes look vaguely sad. Arthur doesn’t dwell on it. He feels the same way, really. There’s nothing to be done for it. 

He stops halfway through the door, his hand resting on the frame. “The review will be in Monday’s paper,” he calls over his shoulder.

“That’s fast,” Eames mutters. 

“You know,” Arthur pauses, throwing a slightly coy glance over his shoulder. “I never review a place twice.”

“Hmm,” Eames frowns, and Arthur’s gone.

^~*~^

_The art really shouldn’t be a surprise. Mr. Eames himself is covered in art, just not his own. He’s also built like he was chiseled from actual marble by God, but he doesn’t seem to fully realize that. I found myself mesmerized by the ripple of his deltoids as he lofted dough in circles above his head, gently catching and retossing in a soothing, almost sensual rhythm. I couldn’t look away from his hands as he deftly spooned swirls of that perfectly sweet sauce across the finished crust. Most of all, I was captivated by what’s behind those piercing blue eyes— the creativity, the passion, the intelligence. What it must be like to be loved by anyone with the fierceness and intensity Mr. Eames puts into his life’s work._

^~*~^

Saito puts his pen down with a frown. He removes his glasses, and slides a frustrated hand down his face. “I distinctly remember telling you I was looking for family friendly content, Mr. Aaronson.”

Arthur crosses his legs and rocks the chair back. “You said to review this pizza place. I reviewed this pizza place.”

“This isn’t a review. This is a typewritten mating dance.”

“You know, I hear _The Sun_ is considering starting a food column,” Arthur deadpans. 

“Arthur, this review’s a little racy,” Cobb calls from the bullpen, the very soul of unhelpfulness. Saito points his pen in Cobb’s direction.

“Print it.” Arthur orders.

^~*~^

_The Pizza Forge doesn’t deliver, but it’s a place where you can fall in love, surrounded by a confounding mixture of beauty, gaudiness, and creative genius. The spark of a dream come true is waiting for you there. Maybe it’s just the sauce._

_Don’t forget to order the garlic knots._

^~*~^

“Wow,” Ariadne smirks. “You should sleep with the food critic more often.”

“I haven’t slept with the food critic,” Eames stammers, a blush creeping up beneath the collar of his gaudy Hawaiian shirt. 

“Why not?” 

It’s a question he doesn’t have a good answer for, the more he thinks about it. He remembers Arthur, pinned against the shelves of the refrigerator, straining every last fiber of Eames’ professionalism. “Health code,” he says. He thinks of the look Arthur threw him as he left. He doesn’t date chefs he’s reviewing. 

But his review is published. 

He doesn’t review any restaurant twice. 

“Fire up the oven,” Eames barks, strolling determinedly into the kitchen. 

“It’s 10:30!” Ariadne calls back.

“We’ve got a big order to fill.”

^~*~^

It’s safe to say it’s been a long time since Arthur felt like this. Sure, there was the occasional guy in college. He’s been on blind dates, and he really is regularly propositioned by restaurant owners in the city who want their profile to go a little more smoothly. He’s never wanted to take one of them up on it before, and he’s never felt so bafflingly empty after a job. It was some kind of madness that overpowered him as he wrote his review— words spewing out in a very short fit of passion. He’s not even sure he fully considered that Eames would actually read the review when he waxed poetic on his spices and biceps.

(Of course he did. _Of course he fucking did._ He didn’t consider that Eames would be reading the review just like he didn’t imagine groaning it directly into Eames’ ear while unbuttoning his jeans, and just like he only took an extra long shower that night because of the incident with the pizza sauce.)

He’s not even nervous. He feels like he’s flying, like despite the fact that he would plummet if he looked down, he is climbing ever higher on a never ending staircase. It’s a paradox— he could be so happy; he could be so crushed. There’s no point in worrying about it. 

It takes him a bit to notice Saito standing in the opening of his cubicle. 

“Mr. Saito,” Arthur nods. 

“The other peacock has fanned its tail.”

“I’m sorry?” Arthur blinks. Saito steps back to let Arthur out into the bullpen, but he’s distracted by the sudden and overpowering smell of— “the sauce,” he sighs, his mouth watering. 

“So much for not liking pizza,” Saito says, halfway grinning. Arthur nearly floats toward the break room. 

“I’m developing a taste for it,” Arthur deadpans. Eames is waiting in the doorway, a soft smile playing at his mouth. “Mr. Eames,” says Arthur. His stomach is tied in vibrating knots. Eames leans against the doorframe. 

“Afternoon, darling. Thought you lot might be hungry.”

“That was awfully nice of you,” Arthur says. He resolutely keeps his eyes on Eames face. “I thought you didn’t deliver.”

“We don’t,” Eames confirms. “Thank you for my review.”

“It’s my job to write the truth.”

“Gentlemen,” Saito sighs. “This a a bullpen, not a petting zoo. No peacocks.” Saito shoos them into the hallway and points to the alley door. “Thank you for feeding my employees, Mr. Eames. Please stop and see our marketing booker on your way out.”

Eames doesn’t hear any of that. He’s too busy watching Arthur practically saunter through the alley door. His mind is too occupied with thoughts of the food critic half naked, tomato sauce running in rivulets across the planes of his unnecessarily cut abs. He’s thinking about Arthur, insisting he’s talented. He’s imagining him crouched over a desk in his glasses while he types out that Eames’ restaurant is “a place where you can fall in love.” His heart is pounding a little too quickly. “Let me take you to dinner,” Eames offers. The steel door creaks shut behind him. 

“I have to go to a new burger joint opening on 17th Street,” Arthur says. A lesser man would pout from the injustice. Eames very nearly does. 

“Ah.”

“You could come with me,” Arthur suggests, absently stepping closer into Eames’ personal space. 

Eames presses Arthur into the brick. The wall is a little damp from earlier, a quick spring storm having cooled the afternoon. It’s almost unbearably humid, and everything smells like ozone and green, except the char and tomato wafting off Eames. “I could,” he agrees. 

“Maybe get a drink after.”

“Maybe,” Eames purrs, dragging the ghost of a hand up Arthur’s side. Arthur loops his fingers in Eames belt loops and pulls him even closer. The polyester of his shirt catches against Arthur’s silk tie. 

“Are you wearing a Hawaiian shirt?” Arthur asks, frowning suddenly. 

“Maybe,” Eames purrs. Arthur is undeterred. 

“Thanks for bringing lunch,” he breathes. 

Eames leans in. His lips brush Arthur’s ear. “I put red onion on one of the pizzas,” he whispers. 

“Eames,” Arthur whimpers, and Eames kisses him soundly. Arthur moans into his mouth, grateful for the support of Eames’ hands at his waist and the wall behind him. Words flit behind his eyes as he fully melts into Eames embrace, the closest things to coherent thought he can form. 

_Diverting._

_Succulent._

_Saporous._

_Mouthwatering._

He should really go for pizza more often.

**Author's Note:**

> Come help me figure out how to [Tumblr](https://finelydressedspacemen.tumblr.com)


End file.
